


An Ordinary Shirt

by aces



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:49:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aces/pseuds/aces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It really was a very ordinary blue shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Ordinary Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2004 for a "blue" challenge on the muncle LJ community.

Illya was wearing a blue shirt today.

It did not match his eyes. It did not bring out their colour. Napoleon (who noticed these things) noticed this particularly, because there was absolutely nothing extraordinary about this blue shirt. It was in fact the most nondescript blue shirt Napoleon Solo had ever seen.

“Changing your wardrobe?” he inquired mildly with raised eyebrows.

Illya looked up from the folders lying in front of him on his desk, the frown of concentration on his face changing to one of slight confusion. “What?” he asked, ridiculous in his thick-framed glasses.

“Your shirt,” Napoleon gestured discreetly. “It’s blue.”

“Hmm? Oh.” Illya glanced without interest at his attire, then returned to his files. Napoleon blinked, mentally shrugged, and went about his own business.

For some reason, Napoleon couldn’t stop thinking about the blue shirt the rest of the day. He sat across from Illya at their debriefing with Mr Waverly so he could glance at it without drawing attention to himself; he fell slightly behind when they walked silently down the UNCLE headquarters so he could study the shirt from the back, as Illya was not wearing his suit jacket (though he did have his shoulder holster, of course). The shirt inexplicably fascinated Napoleon.

Illya seemed ignorant of this odd new obsession of his partner’s; or he at least made no comment about it. He went about his business as coolly and efficiently as always. Meanwhile, Napoleon remained distracted.

“Do you have a date tonight?” Illya asked late in the afternoon, pushing back from his desk to stretch and roll his shoulders.

“No,” Napoleon said absently, rousing himself from his brown study and startled anew by the blue shirt. “No, alas, I have no plans for the evening.”

“Why don’t you stop by my apartment for dinner then?” Illya suggested, gathering piles of paper and folders and beginning to stack them more neatly.

“Alright,” Napoleon agreed readily, “I’ll bring the wine.”

Three hours later he was knocking at Illya’s door, bottle in hand. Illya opened the door and ushered his friend into the sparsely furnished living room, economical and efficient like its owner.

“I’m making pasta,” Illya said, heading into the kitchen, “since I know you think I can’t destroy that.”

“I have nothing against borscht,” Napoleon called into the other room, hanging up his coat.

Illya may or may not have snorted in response.

The American wandered into the kitchen, bringing the wine with him. Illya was watching pasta boil, glancing over occasionally at the simmering marinara sauce in another pan. Napoleon sat the bottle of wine on the table and maneuvered around it so he could gently take Illya’s shoulders and turn him around.

Illya turned willingly, an inquiring tilt to his fair eyebrows. Napoleon kissed him lightly on the lips, and Illya murmured questioningly against his mouth. Napoleon grinned but waited a moment or two before releasing the Russian.

Illya blinked at him. “Before dinner?” he asked dryly, and Napoleon couldn’t refrain from laughing a little.

“Priorities,” Napoleon agreed and went to the cupboard to pick out the glasses and eating utensils.

After dinner, Illya was washing dishes and Napoleon was drying. When the last fork had been dried, Napoleon put it away carefully, set down his dish towel, and took Illya in his arms again, working from his partner’s brow down with thorough, confident lips.

Illya responded approvingly, though he began to question the choice of locale for such activities. Napoleon ignored him and began to work at the buttons on Illya’s blue shirt, undoing them one by one with slow, methodical care.

Illya watched him the while with deep amusement in his blue eyes. Napoleon at last slid his partner out of the shirt and studied it anew, by itself, not encasing Illya Kuryakin’s body.

It really was a very ordinary blue shirt.

“I have worn that shirt before, you know,” Illya told him calmly, taking it away from Napoleon and walking out of the kitchen toward the bedroom, still clad in his undershirt. Napoleon followed and found the Russian hanging the shirt up in the closet.

“You have?” Napoleon asked distractedly. “I don’t remember it.”

Illya turned back to him, eyebrows sardonic. “I have,” he confirmed. “Though judging by the way you were staring at me all day, I’d say you’d forgotten about it.”

Napoleon flushed. “You never wear colours,” he said with dignity. “You know women find you sexy in black.”

Illya’s lips quirked into a trademark smirk, and his blue eyes shone, and Napoleon shook his head, once again laughing quietly.

“Incorrigible,” he told the Russian, and Illya kissed him thoroughly. After a moment or two, Napoleon pulled back.

“Warn me next time you plan to wear that?” he said.

“Why?” Illya inquired.

“It’s damned distracting,” Napoleon admitted frankly.

Illya’s only response was another enigmatic smirk.


End file.
